The Pit and the Pendulum
by roguejedi89
Summary: SuperWhoLock Fic! Three of the greatest villains of all time ally themselves to restart the Apocalypse and destroy the Universe. Castiel unites the Doctor, Dean Winchester, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson to free Sam from the Satan Pit, prevent destruction, stop the bad guys, save the world, and generally do what heroes do best. SN post S5, DW Post S5, Sherlock post S2.
1. Prologue

AN: This is a SuperWhoLock crossover (Supernatural/Doctor Who/Sherlock). The timeline of the story will take place as follows: Supernatural post season 5 (seasons 6 on do not exist), Doctor Who: Anytime after season 5 (possibly after season 6), Sherlock: Post season 2. Spoilers will probably show up from all fandoms. Also, in order to rationalize all of these characters existing in the same universe, for the purposes of this fic, there have been no worldwide phenomena related to our heroes. That is, the Apocalypse was small scale, no Planets in the Sky, etc. We assume that none of the characters have heard of each other before the events of this story. As per usual, all characters, locations, copyrights, etc., are property of their respective owners. Hope you all enjoy!

The air smelled damp and fresh as the thick fog floated lazily around the trees and above the ferns. The pines stretched high like ancient sentinels, choking out the clouded sky with their reaching branches and soft-tipped needles. Dew collected on the leaves and twigs of the underbrush and crickets and frogs trilled gently as they hid among the growth. Sammy's jeans grew clammy against his skin as his legs brushed past the damp foliage. There seemed to be no path to follow, but, at this hour of the night, Sammy doubted he would have been able to follow it anyway. He didn't need a path, really, he knew where he was going, and the road should be just up ahead. Although the forest didn't seem to be thinning out at all.

'Maybe this is a bad idea,' Sammy thought as he rested his duffel bag against a fallen tree trunk, 'Dean will be really mad when he wakes up, and I don't want him to get in trouble with Dad. Maybe I should go back.' He shifted his bag back onto his shoulder and turned around.

Well, he thought he turned around. Did he come from the right, or from the left? Sammy's pulse quickened as he tried to remember exactly which root he'd tripped on or which tree he'd gripped as he walked past. Everything looked the same. Sammy took a few steps past his fallen tree; sticks and leaves seemed to crack louder under his feet than they had before. No, it just seemed louder because the frogs and crickets had stopped chirping. All of them. Sammy's blood chilled as a single sound ripped through the night. It sounded like the rustling of wind, the scrape of metal against metal, and a tidal wave breaking against a cliff, all at the same time. It was a sound he'd never heard before, but he knew that meant bad news.

Sammy dropped his bag and bolted. His grey sneakers thrashed the underbrush and his lungs chilled as they gasped for the foggy air. Desperate to stay ahead of whatever wraith or specter was haunting this forest, Sammy yelped as his foot caught on a rock and he tumbled into a shallow brook. He heard footsteps and turned around, expecting to see a gargantuan, winged creature capable of making such a terrible scream- … but it was a man. A very odd-looking man. He was skinny, with floppy brown hair, and he was wearing a bowtie like people from the movies.

"Hello there, are you alright? Sorry if I gave you a fright, just popped out for a bit of fresh air- love the Pacific Northwest, me- so I- dear me, you're in a ditch." He had a funny accent, like the people in the _Mary Poppins_ movie Sammy had seen at school once, and he smiled a lot. He seemed kind of nice. The man reached in his jacket pocket and took out a weird silver pen. The pen's tip glowed green and it made a whirring noise as the man waved it around Sammy's legs. "No broken bones, excellent, although those bruises on your shins will probably smart in the morning. I'm called the Doctor, by the way," he man smiled warmly.

"Sammy Winchester," the boy worked out through chattering teeth.

"Winchester? Fantastic name! Pleased to meet you, Sammy… Oh, my, that won't do at all," the Doctor said as he pulled Sammy upright, "let's get you out of that stream, shall we?" The Doctor settled Sammy on a mossy bank and draped his tweed coat around the boy's shoulders. The coat smelled weird, like dried leaves and… fish fingers? But Sammy was glad to have the warmth. "Now, tell me, Sammy, what's a seven-year-old boy doing way out here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm running away," Sammy answered as he nestled into the coat.

"Running away? My goodness, that is a big business, isn't it? Why would you want to run away?"

"I never get to be normal like the other kids. I'm sick of moving all the time. I want a real bedroom, and a dog, and I want to play on a baseball team, and have the same teacher for the whole school year." Sammy paused, not sure whether or not to trust the stranger with the next bit, but the Doctor seemed really nice, "and, well, Dad's never home, and when he is he just talks to Dean, and Dean's always trying to boss me around." Sammy dropped his gaze to the moss growing at his feet.

"Dean is your brother, I take it?" The Doctor tilted his head to catch Sammy's eye.

"Yeah."

"Well, Sammy, running away is a serious business, and so are brothers, for that matter," the Doctor smiled, trying to cheer up the boy, "You know, I ran away from home once." Sammy didn't answer. "By the time I went back, everyone had left… It gets pretty lonely after a while."

"Is that why you're so sad?" Sammy asked. The Doctor's smile dropped and his eyes went hollow. His lips opened slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but had no idea of what to say. "You keep smiling, but it doesn't look like you mean it. Dad smiles like that a lot; I think it's 'cause he misses Mom. Is it because you miss people?"

"Yes," the Doctor murmured, "I do miss people."

"I think I would miss Dean if I ran away. Dad too, but mostly Dean. I would be sad if I never got to see him again, even though he is bossy sometimes." The Doctor looked even sadder than before, Sammy realized, so he tried an idea, "Do you want to be friends?"

The Doctor twitched a bit as he turned to Sammy, "Sorry, what? Not paying attention there for a moment."

"Do you want to be friends? I won't get to see you very often, 'cause we move a lot, but Dean told me that if you wish _really_ hard to find someone, you will. So we could be friends, and if I'm sad, or if you're sad, we'll just wish really hard and we'll run into each other again." Sammy smiled wide, loose and missing teeth giving him a goofy, childish grin.

"Sammy, that sounds like a fantastic idea. Really, best one I've heard all year," the Doctor popped out his Sonic Screwdriver and set it on the flashlight setting, "now, let's get you back to base before your brother worries about you, shall we?" Sammy yawned and nodded.

The Doctor chattered away about the virtues of fish fingers and custard all the way back to the cabin, miraculously finding the way even though Sammy hadn't told him where it was or what it looked like.

"Here we are, right as rain," the Doctor grinned as the cabin came into view.

"I hope you find your friends," Sammy yawned as he shrugged the Doctor's coat off and returned it.

"Well, that should be easy enough, I know how to do it now. I just have to wish really hard, don't I?" The Doctor smiled, as he watched Sammy ease open the door and sneak back inside the cabin.

"Sammy, where have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere." Dean rushed to Sammy as he came in the door. He was trying to make his voice go lower, so he'd sound more grown up, but it didn't really work.

"I heard an owl outside," Sammy answered, "I wanted to look at it."

"An owl, Sammy, an _owl_? Do you know what could have happened to you? You don't even know what's out there!"

"An owl's out there. I heard it."

Dean tried to think of a response, but gave up and scratched his hair before telling his brother, "Fine, well, Dad wants us to be able to leave first thing in the morning, so you'd better get to sleep."

Sammy crawled into his bed and nestled into the covers, about to fall asleep, when he remembered that he had left his duffel bag out in the forest. He peeled off the covers and was searching for his shoes when he very nearly tripped over the black canvas sack, safely nestled at the foot of his bed. Bewildered, Sammy rushed to the window to see if the Doctor was there, but he only heard the same noise from before. This time it didn't sound so scary; he knew there was no monster behind it.


	2. The Flat

The first moments of his consciousness were as physically agonizing as they were logically ludicrous. Lungs not used to breathing hacked and wheezed. Eyes not used to seeing constricted as morning light burned. A heart not used to beating cramped and ached as life pumped again. Sherlock Holmes lived.

As soon as his nerves regulated his essential systems, Sherlock's mind was alive and buzzing. 'Location: London, rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Time: 8:37am, late July, judging by traffic patterns and local foliage. Status: Alive, physically improved, cavity in lower right molar absent, scar above left knee faded, nicotine addiction eradicated. Burning ache in shoulders, result of handprint-shaped abrasions of unknown origin. Conclusion: … Not enough data. Must subsidize with previous memories. Logical memories conclude with the consecutive suicides of Moriarty and myself, followed by nonsensical flashes of mental and physical torture at the hands of black-eyed monstrosities. The latter memories are largely blocked, likely the result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Conclusion: I have either bested insurmountable odds and survived the fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew's, and have subsequently suffered brain damage, leading to loss of memory and the creation of horrific fantasies, or I have been raised from a hellish afterlife by supernatural powers. Objective: come in contact with an outside source in order to collect more information and clarify the facts.' Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket.

"I have no mobile."

'New objective: obtain mobile.'

SWL-SWL-SWL

John Watson sat at the end of the bar, his eyes fixed on the line of carbonation rising in his cider, his mind fixed on nothing at all. He knew it was ludicrous to be at a pub at 9:00am, but he didn't particularly mind. It wasn't that he needed the drink, although there was something soothing about a pint of good dry cider, but rather that he had no place to be at this particular time on this particular day, and he rather disliked the aimlessness of it all. At least at the pub he was _doing_ something, even if it was just watching tiny bubbles rise in his glass. He'd been nursing the same pint for almost an hour, and it was rather warm and unappetizing, but there were worse things in life than warm cider. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, bringing him out of his reverie. He didn't recognize the number. John ignored the text, dropped a fiver on the bar, and left his warm pint behind.

John's mobile pulsed again as he crossed the street. Same number. John whisked it back into his pocket. Though he had no particular destination in mind, John's feet led him to the lab of Molly Hooper. Molly had been a godsend these last few months, at first offering a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to lean on, then, once the initial shock wore off, a place to stay. Baker Street had become too painful for John, even though Mrs. Hudson had been so understanding after-… well, _after_. When John needed a place to stay, Molly came through with a small, cozy flat that a friend had just cleared out. Now, though, Molly offered something more essential to John; she gave him purpose. When John had lost all direction, Molly got him a part-time consulting job at her lab. John didn't have a particular need for the money; Mycroft had established a small account for him with his condolences. There wasn't much work to be done anyway, a few hours a week at most, but it gave John something to do other than study warm cider.

Molly looked up from her microscope as John entered. She smiled sweetly and went back to her work. There was an unspoken agreement between the two: some days were just better spent without idle chatter. The silence was a comfortable one, at least. Or it would have been if it weren't interrupted by John's mobile. John nearly crushed the damn thing as he ripped it from his pocket.

"Seventeen messages since I left the pub, all from the same number." He sighed as he regained control and set the phone on a desk.

"What do they say?" Molly asked.

"Dunno. Never checked. Wrong number."

"Well, what if it's someone you know, they just got a new mobile and want to give out the number?"

The phone buzzed again, and rather insistently at that. Molly nodded her head at the thing and gave John a stern look. John rolled his eyes, snatched the mobile, and flipped open the first text.

_The Flat. –SH_

John froze, nearly dropping the phone. He opened the next text, and the ones after, not daring to breathe.

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

_The Flat. –SH_

"I have to go," John breathed.

"What is it? Is everything alright? John!" Molly called after him as he rushed out of the lab.

"Taxi!" John flagged down the nearest cabby, hopping in the backseat before it came to a full stop, "221 Baker Street, fast as you can."

John dropped a few notes at the cabby as he stormed 221B Baker Street, blood boiling and ready for action. He rushed the stairs, threw open the door, and belted, "I don't know who the bloody hell you think you are, but if this is your idea of the joke, you will be a mewling puddle of piss by the time I'm done with you."

"What took you so long? And not so loud, John, I'm conducting research."

Rage melted into confusion that resurged into grief. John's legs moved of their own accord, bringing him around the corner to the dining room. There, surrounded by books and scrolls, was Sherlock.

"You're dead," John gasped. Sherlock looked up from his tomes and moved toward him, "NO! No. I buried you. I saw you fall, I buried you, and you are dead." Tears lined his eyes.

"My initial research had suggested as much, but it is good to hear your confirmation of my death. You're sure I haven't suffered brain damage and am creating this entire scenario as I've escaped some institution?"

"Stop talking! Stop it. You're dead, you can't be talking, so stop it," John was close to hyperventilating now.

"Very well. All that remains, then, is the impossible conclusion that supernatural forces are at work. This would explain the physical irregularities of my anatomy." Sherlock muttered to himself as he turned to the bookshelf.

"What?" John asked, too astounded to continue any rational line of thought.

"You, John Watson, vouch for the fact that I am not the subject of grievous mental trauma, but, rather, that I have been deceased for the past six months. I may logically conclude that it would be highly unlikely that I would survive the fall at all, much less without severe bodily injury. In addition, though this entire scenario could be a figment of my damaged imagination, it is vastly unlikely that my fall resulted in brain damage sufficient only to alter my perception and leave the rest of my mental faculties untouched. That, combined with my physical alterations, leaves me to conclude that my resurrection must, indeed, be supernatural in nature." Growing impatient at John's lack of answer, Sherlock snipped, "Come now, John, use your brain. It's simple logic. Did I die, or did I not?"

"There is nothing simple about it you robotic, cynical, maniac!" John's emotional reserve snapped, "You died. I witnessed your death, I oversaw your autopsy, I was pallbearer at your funeral. You died. I may not have come to terms with it, but damn well know that it happened."

Sherlock faltered for a brief moment, his motive caught between wanting to evaluate John's emotional response and wanting to carry his argument through to its logical conclusion. Logic first, emotion later. "Established fact: I, Sherlock Holmes, died. Next, your sanity. Are you, at this moment, awake, sober, and of sound mind and body?"

"Enough," John breathed heavily, exhausted, "just enough… I'm awake, I'm sober, sanity I can't vouch for, but… whatever this is, whatever you are," his eyes locked on Sherlock's for a brief, ragged moment, "I just can't do it." John slumped into the chair nearest to him- the same chair by the table from which he'd written many of his blog posts.

Sherlock stood, almost dumbfounded. There was no logical conclusion to this scenario, no evidence from which he could draw. His traditional paths of action were closed off to him, leaving only untried and rather intimidating terrain. Silence stood heavy in the room for he knew not how long before John spoke in a cracked, weary voice.

"I prayed, Sherlock. I didn't know what else to do. You were dead, and no magic trick could bring you back, but I prayed." Sherlock moved to speak, but John continued, "I seem to have two options. Either I'm imagining this whole thing and what I do doesn't matter anyway, or someone heard my prayer and brought back my friend." John smiled weakly, accepting whatever absurdity he'd stumbled into, "A guardian angel."

_Angel._

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes slammed shut as a vision- no, a memory- wracked through his body. John rushed to his side as Sherlock fell to the ground, books tumbling around him as he crashed against the shelves. _A man. A man with blue eyes and vast wings, brighter than anything ever seen or imagined. The man, the __**creature**__, gripped his shoulders tight, searing his flesh with holy fire. His countenance was gentle, but he spoke with a voice like a thousand silver trumpets, "Rise, Sherlock. There is work to be done."_

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice seemed distant as a roaring echo continued to ring in Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulder, nodding that he was unharmed saying, "I think your angel may have heard you, John."

SWL-SWL-SWL

Weeks and months passed with little conflict. Sherlock and John decided it would be best if the world at large were kept ignorant of Sherlock's miraculous resurrection. Mrs. Hudson knew, of course, but John kept Sherlock's cover as the detective hid away with his research. The work was slow, but John and Sherlock filled their days with the study of Biblical lore, supernatural events, and folk legends from around the world. But if each day brought Sherlock closer to answers, each night brought countless more questions. In his few sleeping hours, Sherlock was plagued with constant, baffling dreams. Tonight was no different.

Sherlock stood in a graveyard; it was old, ill used, and overgrown. The sky was gloomy and cloudy, yet rain never came. Before him stood a disheveled man in a trench coat. The man had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and hands that seemed a perfect match for the scars on Sherlock's shoulders.

"I remember you with wings" Sherlock said drolly.

"There is little time for banter, Sherlock Holmes," the man responded, "There is work to be done."

"So you have said. I don't suppose you'd care to clarify at all?"

The man visibly curbed his annoyance before responding, "You are a man of logic and understanding. I can see now that you will not continue on your path without having your way. Very well. My name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord, and it is I who raised you from the Depths."

"The Depths? Then I was in Hell?" Castiel nodded. "If you are who you say, then you would not have done so without reason," Sherlock argued, "What do you want of me?"

"A chain of events has begun stirring that, if allowed to come to fruition, could scourge the planet Earth with a second Apocalypse, one we have no hope of stopping. You are necessary to the cause that seeks to prevent this."

"Me? What could I possibly do to prevent an apocalypse?"

"Lucifer seeks to walk the earth to rain destruction upon Mankind. There are crucial steps that must be taken to prevent his resurrection. Namely, we must free a soul that is held captive in the deepest and darkest circle of Hell."

"I can hardly see how one soul is paramount to the destruction of the planet, much less how I factor into all this."

"Sam Winchester is Lucifer's vessel," Castiel flared at Sherlock's insolence, "Without him, Lucifer cannot rise. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the only human being who has been in Hell and is capable of finding its weaknesses. You, who can deduce all things, must discover the key to freeing Sam Winchester and preventing the Apocalypse."

"You can't just do it yourself?"

"Angels do not have the power to enter the Pit."

"You freed me," Sherlock was relentless.

"You were within our reach, not in the deepest circle chained to Lucifer's throne," Castiel answered, trembling hands betraying rage that calm façade could not hide.

Sherlock had to admit, that he was fascinated by it all. "I accept the case. Although, I am loath to admit it, I do not believe that it is within my power to do all of this on my own."

"I concur. I will double my efforts to provide you with suitable assistance. Be watchful of their coming."

Before Sherlock could answer, Castiel reached forward, placed a finger on Sherlock's temple, and shocked him with a holy power. Sherlock woke with a start, the scars on his shoulders flaring and itching as they always did after a dream. He returned to his study, only to find John already searching through their notes and typing away at his laptop, despite the late hour.

"Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock asked as he shuffled over to John's desk.

"Not a wink," John answered, "nightmare woke me up."

Sherlock nodded as he peered over John's shoulder at a scrap of paper clutched in the doctor's hand. Sherlock froze as he read two words. _Sam Winchester_.

"What's wrong?" John asked, turning away from his screen.

"Your nightmare, did it take place in a ruined cemetery?" Sherlock asked hurriedly.

"Yes," John was astounded, "But how could you-"

"Castiel saw fit to visit me as well." Sherlock answered, grinning zealously as the case of the Inmate of the Inner Circle took its first fascinating new turn.


	3. The Angel in the Police Box

"Why do I ever wear this suit? Nothing good ever happens when I wear this suit!" The Doctor rushed into the TARDIS, tuxedo jacket smoking, trousers torn in the knees, and bowtie askew. He shut the door soundly behind him, mumbling all the while about, "that's the last time I'm accepting an invitation to a Kortheeri wedding, I can tell you that much."

The TARDIS hummed quietly as the Doctor scurried about, searching for his patched jacket and favorite red bowtie. It had been less than a week since the Weeping Angels had taken Amy and Rory, locking them away in Manhattan, forever out of the Doctor's reach. The Doctor had put on a brave face like he always did, but the TARDIS wasn't fooled. She knew when his eyes drifted to the empty seats in the console room, or when he purposefully avoided the latest in a long line of empty bedrooms when he walked her labyrinth halls. He still talked to himself; he wasn't used to not having an audience. She hummed and chirped and bellowed as loudly as she could, hoping that he would forget the silence.

The Doctor, of course, noticed none of this and continuing his prattling about the rather unfortunate tradition in the middle of the ceremony in which the couple exchanged fire-breathing predators as wedding gifts, "And nobody told me to dress flame-resistant and _where_ is my bowtie?" The Doctor exclaimed.

"It's stuffed in your back pocket." A low, gravely voice interrupted the Doctor's ramblings.

"Ah, of course," The Doctor sighed as he leaned against the console and reached into his pocket for his bowtie, "Always the last place you l-gwhaaaa!" He turned and raced around the console toward the man standing near the front door. "Who are you and exactly how did you get in?"

"My name is C-" The stranger started.

"We're in a Time Vortex, for crying out loud! I mean, is there some sort of 'I'm a complicated, impenetrable time machine, please come in- and do bring a friend' sign on the door? NO. It should be a 'No Trespassing' sign. Yes, a definite, 'No Trespassing, No Hijacking, No Stowaways, No Loitering, No Eavesdropping, No Littering, No Left Turn, No G-"

The man closed his eyes briefly, and then produced a sound of great and terrible ferocity that shook the TARDIS to her smallest gear and pulley. The Doctor flailed against the console, clinging to switches and levers in a desperate attempt to keep to his feet.

"What was that? What language was that?" The Doctor gasped, trying to regain his composure as the power of the sound reverberated through him, "It didn't translate. _Nothing_ doesn't translate…"

"That was a whisper in _Enochian_. Do not make me raise my voice, I do not think you would like it." The man stood, unassuming, but very much in control.

"_Enochian_? No. Nononono. What- how could you possib-"

"My name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord."

The Doctor, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, took in the strange creature. By all outward appearances he seemed to be a human male of no spectacular physical quality. He had dark hair, pale skin, and was of average height and build, although his eyes were astonishingly blue by human standards. "… Angels speak with American accents?" The Doctor challenged.

"Angels come in many forms for many tasks."

"Right," The Doctor was quickly tiring of his uninvited guest, "well I've just about had enough of _Angels_ at this point," The Doctor spoke through gritted teeth, "so you can pack up your wings and be on your way." He turned on his heel to the TARDIS console, trying to find a way to eject his unwanted company.

"Gears have been set in motion which, if allowed to continue, could lead to the end of this Universe." The angel's low voice seemed to echo through the console room as the TARDIS' gentle hum seemed suddenly absent.

"Oh, is it Tuesday again?" The Doctor remained unmoved.

Castiel ignored the Doctor's quip and continued, "Almost one year ago, Lucifer was freed from Hell, possessed a human Host, and nearly succeeded in bringing the Earth to an apocalyptic end."

"Near-Apocalypse? How come I didn't hear about it? Usually I at least get an E-Vite to these sorts of things." The Doctor asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

"The destruction, though tragic, was small-scale. Through the efforts of Dean and Sam Winchester, the Apocalypse was prevented and Lucifer was sealed once again in his cage, though not without a price. It is that which brings me here today. When Lucifer was banished back to Hell, his human host was trapped with him. It is of paramount importance that-"

"Wait, where do I know that name… Winchester… Sammy Winchester?" The Doctor interrupted, recognition dawning, "the little boy who wanted to run away? I-have-an-overprotective-brother-and-my-limbs-are-too-long-for-my-body Sammy?"

"Yes. Although he is now an adult, many of your descriptions remain accurate. I did not realize you were acquainted."

"An adult? I just saw him in the woods three days ago, just a gangly little kid!"

"Three days ago for you, lifetimes for him. Sam Winchester is…" The Angel struggled to say it.

"No," the Doctor's face fell and his eyes went hollow as shame and terror crept into his heart, "Don't tell me that little Sammy…"

"Is the Host of Lucifer," Castiel conceded, "currently sealed away in Lucifer's Cage, as he has been for the last year, with no possibility of rescue or redemption without your assistance. Not only that, but if Sam is allowed to remain in Hell, Lucifer will undoubtedly find another way to break free from his cage and walk the Earth in Sam's body, and when he does, no power in any Universe will be able to stop him."

"You stopped him last time, what would keep you from stopping him again?"

"Our triumph over Satan was nothing short of a miracle of human will," Castiel paused briefly and cleared his throat, a human foible he had grown accustomed to, and the only physical tell that the angel was overcome with grief, "Sam Winchester regained control of his body for a single instant, long enough to sacrifice himself and cast his body into the abyss, sealing Lucifer away once more. He has been trapped, chained at the foot of Lucifer's throne for over a year. No human, no matter how righteous, would be able to maintain his will after that. No. When Lucifer rises again, Sam will be his Host, he will destroy the world in the form of a good and just man, and there will be no way to stop it."

The Doctor's face was grim with despair as he locked eyes with the angel, horror creeping into his voice in a slight quaver, "So, what do you propose I do? Just pop the TARDIS in for a quick cup of tea with Earth's most powerful evil entity and say, 'yes, good chat, love what you've done with the place, by the way, mind if I take Sam with me? No? Lovely, cheers!' Well, much as I'd love to, I can't. I don't know who sent you to find me, but there's nothing I can do!" The reality of his inability to do the slightest thing to protect those innocents he cared for was tearing the Doctor's twin hearts. "What your religion describes as Hell? I know of it. I know it's on a different plane of existence. Time and Relative Dimension In Space has absolutely no ability to cross into pockets of the Universe that do not live in Time or Space. Hell is off-limits. So, no, there's nothing I can do."

The two stared for a moment, each unsure of what to say, each struggling with the idea of saying anything, each struggling to maintain a stoic façade rather than despair over how neither could save a dear friend from incalculable torment.

"I know that you would not be able to enter Hell's gates as such," Castiel began haltingly, "but that is not your purpose."

"Purpose?" The Doctor smiled wearily, "What could you possibly know about my purpose?"

"I was sent to collect you by a man much wiser and more powerful than I. The Prophet Chuck."

"'The Prophet Chuck'? Doesn't have much of a ring to it, does it. No, not epic at all, doesn't lend much credibility, I'm afraid." The Doctor tried to regain some of his composure as he hid behind his weak humor.

"Regardless of your appreciation of the aesthetics of his name, the Prophet has a direct connection to God Himself. The Prophet tasked me with uniting a band capable of stopping Lucifer, saving Sam, preventing the Apocalypse and the consequent destruction of the entire Universe."

"Okay," Enough was enough. The Doctor walked towards the angel, turning him by the arm and escorting him toward the door, "as much as I get a laugh out of 'Fellowship of the Prophet Chuck' business, you've got the wrong Doctor. I don't do teams anymore… They never work out in the end. So, thanks for dropping by, lovely chat, do it again sometime, ta-ta." The Doctor deposited Castiel firmly at the front door, turned on his heel, and returned to his console, trying to settle the despair he felt rattling in his hearts. He liked Sammy Winchester, he really did, but he could do nothing to save him, and he'd just get everyone in more trouble and cause more pain if he tried. 'And where would I be?' he thought, 'stuck in a graveyard again, with Earth's Apocalypse reigning down around my shoulders.'

Castiel stood before the blue door, Jaw clenched in frustration at the coward who refused to help his friend because he was shackled by his own self-pity. "I know we have never met, Doctor, but we Angels have heard of your heroic efforts. I know how many times the Earth had been saved from destruction through your work. You have saved the world, what, dozens of times? Hundreds? And you only failed to save it once. I hope that tally brings comfort to you."

The angel opened the TARDIS door and walked out into the swirling snow of the Kortheeri Mountains, leaving the Doctor alone again with nothing but the hum of the console. Castiel had gone perhaps a hundred feet when the TARDIS doors creaked open and the Doctor popped his head out.

"Suppose for a moment that curiosity got the best of me, how exactly does a planet-wide Apocalypse lead to the destruction of the Universe?"

Castiel turned and yelled back over the shrill mountain wind, "I was told that Lucifer has made powerful allies since his return to hell, chief among them a new and powerful demon whom we have never before encountered, and a creature not of Heaven, Hell or Earth. He is called, 'The Master,' and Chuck warned me of his great and dark purpose."

To Castiel's supreme surprise, the Doctor came charging out of the TARDIS and straight for the dumfounded angel. The alien grabbed Castiel by the sleeve of his overcoat and dragged him roughly back into the TARDIS. "Give me the exact time and coordinates of our next destination. We've got a gangly kid, a planet, and a Universe to save, and we haven't a moment to spare." The Doctor rambled all in one breath as he slammed the door shut behind them and immediately began flipping switches and levers at the console.

"Then you agree to help our cause?" Castiel asked in astonishment.

The Doctor gave a wild grin, grabbed one final lever and said, "Geronimo."

SWL

The hotel room left much to be desired. The shower was cold, the sheets scratchy and the TV only got three channels. But the mini bar was stocked. Dean Winchester sat at the foot of the bed, a cooking show on in the background for the sake of white noise, and eleven tiny bottles strewn around his feet. He didn't have to look up, but, after years of experience, he knew he wasn't alone.

"I'd offer you a bottle of tequila, Cas, but I'm all out." He turned to fix a bleary gaze on the Angel who had materialized behind him.

"I appreciate your offer, but such a small amount of alcohol would have little effect on me." The angel replied.

"Alright, well, you here on official business, or just come to chat? 'Cause I appreciate the sentiment, but I'd rather be alone right now if it's all the same to you." The hunter set his jaw and turned back to the cooking show, searching for another bottle to down.

Castiel's brows knit together for a moment before he sighed and replied, "My thoughts were not on condolences, Dean, but I do offer them now that I see that they are appropriate. I understand that anniversaries hold great importance, even those marking tragic events such as Sam's-." Dean's sharp glare silenced the angel for a moment. "… Since Lucifer was resealed. My purpose here relates more to what you would call 'official business.'"

"Well, as you can probably tell, I've had just about enough official business for one lifetime, so, unless you want to head down to the Ben's Liquor Shack and pick up some more tequila, you can see yourself out." Dean didn't turn from the TV.

Castiel smiled a moment, "I believe this is 'official business' that will interest you immensely."

"Ha, yeah, sure Cas." Dean found a bottle of vodka yet unopened and set to popping the top off with his teeth.

"I believe we have a chance at pulling Sam out of the Cage."

The vodka bottle fell to Dean's feet, spilling its contents over the mottled carpet as he turned sharply to face the angel and grabbed him by the lapels.

"Cas, if you're messing around, so help me I will pour Holy Oil down your throat and light you like a Cas-o-Lantern."

Castiel calmly removed Dean's hand from his coat and led the hunter back a few steps.

Dean was about to push the angel away when all of a sudden there was a sound; a sound he seemed to have forgotten from some half-remembered dream. The room shook and the windows shuddered as an impossible blue box appeared in the corner of the hotel room where he had stood a moment ago.

"Cas, what the Unholy Hell is that?" Dean stepped back, this time of his own volition, trying to reach whichever of his guns was closest at hand.

At that point the box opened, a skinny brunette fellow popped his head out, smiled like a madman and yelled, "Step lightly, fellas, we've got places to be!"

SWL

AN: Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I'm always happy to answer any questions, concerns, or comments. Feel free to PM me or review! (Also, to anyone interested, I went back and tweaked chapter two a bit. I didn't quite like the original back and forth, hopefully this will flow better.)


End file.
